The Other Woman (37 page)

“N-e-f-f,”
she repeated. She pictured Kenna. Her pleading eyes. “I can’t say how I know. I’m on my way to the newsroom, so I’ll start checking her out when I get there. Can you stand it? Sexpot photos of a murdered woman, the campaign connection, Lassiter’s involvement. The package of photos. Amazing. See you in, like, ten.”

She shifted into second, making the curve onto Merrimack. Frowned. Alex was telling her to—
what?
She weighed the pros and cons as she listened to her boss. The light turned red. Now he was talking about—
what?

“Sorry,” Jane interrupted. “Traffic. You said they’re appearing together? Gable and Lassiter? Where?”

The light changed as Alex explained. Traffic snarling, drivers snarling, maybe the Boston Garden had basketball tonight. “I’ll never get all the way to Porter Square in time,” Jane argued after Alex finished his instructions. “Traffic sucks, it’s starting to rain, it’s going to be a mess.”

Jane turned left, heading over the Charles River on the Longfellow Bridge, its salt-and-pepper turrets illuminated against the now-dark sky. Kylie Howarth’s body was found down there.
Poor Kylie.

Alex’s voice buzzed through the car. Lassiter and Gable, some Chamber of Commerce thing. The
Register
had a reporter there, covering it, but Alex’s brilliant idea was—

“Wait,” she interrupted again. “Say I go to this event. Am I supposed to confront Gable about the Kenna house? Or confront Lassiter about the sexy photo and his relationship with a murdered mistress?”

Alex didn’t answer right away. Jane’s tires clunked over the metal reinforcements as she reached the end of the bridge, her headlights too close to the guy in front of her because someone else was hugging her tail. It was misting now, not really rain, but she flipped on her windshield wipers.
A mess for trick-or-treaters
. Checking her rearview, she saw her own face mottled light and dark in the flickering shadows. Gable as saboteur? Lassiter as philanderer? The candidate connected to a murder?
Some election this is turning out to be.

“I see what you mean,” Alex said. “We have this, exclusive, right? I guess if we have to wait on this story, we have to wait.”

“What about our deal with the police? This means we actually do have a confirmed identity of the dead—”

“Get yourself to the event, let me know when you’re there,” Alex said. “I’ll call Tay Reidy and the lawyers, then call you with an update. It’s touchy. What we can say, what we can’t. The victim’s name. The political angle.”

“Gotcha,” she said. “Moron! Pick a lane!” Jane slammed on her brakes, yanked the wheel. “Sorry, Alex, it’s just—Boston drivers in the rain. Tailgating as a way of life. You know. Anyway. Call me.”

She barely clicked off the phone when it rang again.

“Hey, Janey.”

She touched a hand to her hair, remembered Jake couldn’t see her. “Hey,” she said.

“Hey,
you
.”

She could almost feel his touch. How could that be?

“You driving?” he said.

“Slowly,” Jane replied. “I’m headed to cover a political thing. It’s in Porter Square, but I’m only by the Science Museum, and it’s raining. It’s like a contest for who can drive the slowest.”

With a start, she remembered what she knew. What she had to tell him.

“Listen,” she said. “About this morning. The Fort Point victim.”

“Yeah,” Jake said. “That’s why I’m calling. You listen, okay? I need to e-mail you a photo. But don’t look at it while you’re driving. Can you pull over?”

“Photo?” It could not possibly be the Holly Neff lingerie shot. That would be— She looked at the dashboard clock. Almost nine. She would never get to Porter Square in time. “Of what?”

“Pull over, okay? I’m sending it to you by e-mail. You’ll see why.”

“Two seconds,” she said, eyeing the road in front of her. She knew a strip mall with a parking lot—and a Dunkin’ Donuts—about two blocks ahead. “But while whatever it is flies through cyberspace, let me tell you what I’ve confirmed. First of all, the Fort Point victim turns out to be a woman named— Listen, do we still have our deal? I tell you the name, you give us the story?”

Silence on the other end. Had she blown it? Maybe the cops were about to have a big news conference, reveal the scoop, before Jane could get the big byline. But Jake couldn’t know about the Lassiter connection. Even if the cops gave out Holly’s name, only Jane would have the political angle.

Moira would—

“Janey? How soon till you can pull over?”

“Getting there.” She flipped on her right blinker, crossed in front of a battered Honda, turned into the Dunkin’s lot. A couple of other cars also turned in behind her, probably on a caffeine hunt. She pulled under a light, her wipers sloshing in the now more-than-drizzle, left the engine running. “Okay, all set. I’ll hang up, check the photo, call you back. What am I supposed to be seeing?”

“Just look at the picture,” Jake said.

*   *   *

Where the hell is she going?
Matt almost said the words out loud. He yanked the steering wheel, careened into the parking lot, banged a hard left as Jane Ryland’s car turned right. She couldn’t get out of the lot without him seeing her.

He chose a spot in the corner by the exit, clicked off his headlights, left the motor running. The radio, low, played some impenetrable jazz. Matt’s fingers drummed on the steering wheel. He’d checked out of the hotel. Put his suitcase in the trunk. If he had to, he could take the late train to New York. Get an early plane home from there.

Jane was still in her car, interior light making her a fuzzy silhouette. Looked like she was—texting. Or looking at something. Wasn’t going for coffee.

Cissy had told him to follow her, right? But what was he supposed to do when she got where she was going? Cissy’d hung up so quickly, and didn’t answer when he called her back.

He had to plan.

Number one, if Jane still had Holly’s photos with her, the ones of Holly and Lassiter, he could get them back. Did she bring all of them? Had she copied them?
Problem
. He’d figure that out when the time came.

Two, Jane would connect the woman in those photos with the Fort Point victim—that’s what police called Holly at this morning’s news conference. So Jane knew she was dead.
Problem.

And three, because of Holly’s deceptive photos, Jane would definitely assume the dead woman was connected with his father. Eventually with Matt himself.
Big, big problem.

He squeezed the steering wheel with both hands, not taking his eyes off the woman in the front seat of the Audi.

Matt had to stop Jane Ryland. He was certain Cissy would agree.

64

Jane stared at the minuscule photo of a photo, frame partly showing, off center and canted slightly in her phone screen. Her windshield wipers slapped and clacked across the glass, the heater fogging her windows, her engine idling in the still-crowded parking lot. Outside, the rain intensified, one of those muggy-wet Halloween nights that was half summer, half fall. Inside her car, Jane couldn’t take her eyes off the couple in the picture.

She clicked into phone-mode so she could call Jake. It rang before she could dial.

“Yeah,” she said as she answered. “That’s amazing.”

“What’s amazing?”

It was Alex, not Jake.

“Oh, nothing, Alex,” she said. “What’s up?”

“Change of plans,” Alex said. “The Lassiter event is over. Our reporter just called. Everyone’s gone. Come back to the newsroom. Or head home if you want. Nothing more we can do tonight. No story tomorrow, Tay Reidy says.”

“Really?” That seemed wrong. “But we know the victim is named Holly Neff. We have the photos. We should go with that, at least.”

“Can’t confirm it. Tuck says it’s a next of kin thing. Police are giving out nothing until tomorrow. What’s more, our lawyer’s worried the pictures you have could be Photoshopped. Fake. So we’re waiting. Publisher’s orders.”

Jane frowned, considering. “You think they’re phony, Alex? I don’t. And what if Holly sent copies to every newsroom in town? What if they’re on Channel Eleven tonight? What if we’re totally scooped?”

“What can I say?” Alex paused. “Look, Jane, don’t kill the messenger. It’ll all work. See you tomorrow. Okay?”

“Okay.” He was just doing his job. As she had to. “See you tomorrow.”

She clamped her phone closed, leaned against the headrest.
That’s that.
Then she sat straight up, remembering. She had something that certainly wasn’t fake. The photo from Jake. Jane opened her phone and hit speed dial.

“It’s me,” she said as Jake answered. “It’s amazing.”

“Took you long enough,” Jake said. “So that’s her? You confirm that’s the woman in the photos you got? You said there were pictures of her with Owen Lassiter.”

“Huh? Sure, that’s the same girl. I know her name. But where’d you get that photo?”

“Initials HN?” Jake asked.

So he also knew. Which blew her leverage for an exclusive. But wherever this came from, Holly Neff wasn’t what shocked her about this photo.

“Yes, yes,” Jane said. “But Jakey? That’s not what—”

“You don’t happen to know who the guy is, by any chance? According to the landlord, that’s her boyfriend. He’s now suspect one.”

Jane rolled her eyes. “If you’d let me talk,” she said.

“Talk,” Jake said.

She spilled it, the whole thing, as fast as she could. “And he was at the police press conference. Oh, my gosh. He came up to me, saying he had a story. Matt, he said his name was. No last name. How’d I know he—? Anyway, then, later, Jakey, you saw him, too. Today. At campaign headquarters. When that woman … you know, said she was Kenna Wilkes.”

Silence on the other end. “No, I didn’t see him,” Jake finally said. “Wait. Was it when I was on the phone? The person who walked away?”

“Yes, that was him. That guy!” Jane said. “So now we know exactly how to find him. Because even though we don’t know his last name, or where he is, we know who does. Even though according to your research, she doesn’t exist.”

“Kenna Wilkes,” Jake said.

“Exactly.”
This could work.
Jake nabs Kenna, she gives up Matt, Jake arrests Matt, big scoop, everyone wins. “Are you going to Lassiter headquarters to find her? The campaign thing is over. I’ll meet you there.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Jake said. “Go home. Nothing’s going to happen tonight with the elusive Kenna Wilkes. I’ll call you.”

Kenna Wilkes, who hosted Owen Lassiter at 436 Constitution Lane in Deverton.
“Wait, Jake. Listen. She might be at—”

“Janey?” Jake’s voice had softened. “I have to go now. Go home, okay? Please? And be careful.”

*   *   *

She was leaving.
Finally.
Matt watched as Jane eased her car into traffic, turn signal blinking him her plans, turning right, away from Boston.
Where’s she going?

He waited until two other cars slid in behind her, then edged out onto the rain-puddled street, keeping his eyes on the red glow of her taillights. He could see her perfectly, even in this shitty weather, it was like his eyes were tuned in to her, riveted on her. Jane Ryland was going to ruin his plans. Ruin his life. Ruin his father’s life. Never.
Never
. It was his turn to win. His turn to have a life. It didn’t matter where Jane Ryland was going. Or how long it took. He’d be right behind her.

Her taillights flashed, taunting him.

Talk about ruined.
This is all on Holly
. She’d ruined his life, ruined it from the moment he met her. From the moment he’d first talked to her. From the moment he’d f—

He shuddered out a sigh. Whatever.

*   *   *

At the next stoplight, Jane flipped open the center console. Fumbled inside through her stash of peanut butter crackers and emergency flashlight and emergency batteries and parking meter change. Keeping her eyes on the light, she fingered the power cord for her cell phone, jammed the plug into the charger. Her battery was about shot, and she still had another call to make. Maybe two. No matter what Jake and Alex said.

The light turned green.

She’d go home. But not quite yet. She couldn’t go all the way to Deverton. But the Lassiter home, that was much closer. Hours ago, she’d promised to call Moira Lassiter. Now, thanks to Jake, Jane had a photo of Holly Neff together with the person named Matt. Maybe Moira would know who he was, and where to find him.

Jane checked the glowing numbers on her dashboard. Pushing nine thirty. Lassiter was out, of course, so maybe Moira would invite Jane to chat. After all, now they had something to discuss. Holly Neff as the other woman. Holly Neff as the
dead
other woman.

Moira’s number rang, kept ringing, echoing through the car. No answer yet. Waiting, Jane reached into the console again. Grabbing the crackers with one hand and steering with the other, she ripped the cellophane with her teeth, yellow crumbs dropping on her coat. She was starving, but this would have to hold her for a while.

Still no answer. The voice mail picked up.
Rats.
Jane clicked off the phone, left it to charge. So much for that idea.

Next time she could make a left, she’d turn around. Go home. Get some real food. Regroup. Try Moira again. Wait for Jake to call.

She scanned the road beside her. No side streets, no way to change direction, only an unbroken stand of lofty sentinel poplars, side by side, flanked by a scrollworked metal fence. The rain had stopped, but the iron spikes of the fence posts still glistened as she passed, misted with the night’s fog. Looking to make a U-turn, she was going just fast enough to catch a glimpse of what lay behind the fence, behind the trees, illuminated by hazy spotlights. Rows of headstones.

Jane’s brain clicked. Poplar trees. A grove of poplars. Poplar Grove. Poplar Grove Cemetery.

Where Katharine Lassiter was buried.

Jane munched her peanut butter cracker, its oily crumbles sticking to her gloves. She could check it out right now. Might not even have to get out of the car. Find Katharine Lassiter’s headstone, see what she could learn about Owen Lassiter’s first wife. Gravestones were a wealth of info. A date of birth could lead Jane to Katharine’s birth certificate, which would give her parents’ names and occupations, their hometown, her maiden name, her doctor, the hospital where she was born. Lots of leads. She’d looked up the cemetery after Rory mentioned it the other day, knew it had gravesite locator charts near the front gate.